


Q Is For Quiet Nights, Occasionally Interrupted By A Lovely Murder

by mydogwatson



Series: A Baker Street Alphabet [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Marriage, the years go by
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:11:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pleasant evening at home, a romantic gesture, a case!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Q Is For Quiet Nights, Occasionally Interrupted By A Lovely Murder

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I have faced the unpleasant truth and reminded you all that I do not actually own Sherlock and John. Which is rather a shame, because I think they would enjoy life in my universe. For the most part. Well, except for all the pain and suffering I inflict.
> 
> But it's the weekend, so how about a bit of romantic fluff?

Twas my one glory----  
let it be remembered that  
I was owned by thee.   
-Emily Dickinson 

 

The patented Sherlock Holmes frown was being aimed at the screen of an innocent computer. Apparently the art theft case was turning out to be far from as interesting as it had first appeared to be and Mr. Holmes was upset. “You know, John,” he said after a moment, “I begin to seriously wonder about the criminal class of London these days. There is no finesse. No pride in their work.”

John didn’t look up from the crossword puzzle, but chuckled anyway. “Perhaps you should look at it as a sign of your success. You have done your work so well that the bad guys are vanquished. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

Sherlock huffed and closed the computer. “I suppose. But I would rather have the challenge go on for a few more years until I am ready to withdraw from the field of battle.”

He removed his glasses and stood, stretching to loosen the stiffness in his back, before moving to join John on the sofa. Immediately, John discarded the newspaper and leaned close, running his fingers through the still unruly dark curls that were now tipped artistically with silver. [Of course, nothing as mundane as grey would dare appear in Sherlock’s hair. Only lovely silver.]

“Well, the house in Sussex awaits us, you know. Laboratory and bees included.”

Again Sherlock frowned. “Not yet, John.”

“I know. Not yet.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, until Sherlock stood again. “Thursday night, John.” He held out his hand.

John twisted the platinum and onyx ring from his finger and dropped it into Sherlock’s palm.”

A brief smile was exchanged between the two men.

Sherlock went to the kitchen table. He sat down with John’s ring and his own matching one, a soft cloth, and the tiny jar of very expensive jewelry polish he imported from Paris. John watched him for a moment and then reached for the remote control. “I’ll check the news while you work,” he said. “Just in case a crime wave has broken out.”

“This is not work,” Sherlock muttered.

Once every week for the past nearly twenty years, usually on a Thursday night unless a case interfered, Sherlock meticulously cleaned and polished their wedding rings. He always maintained [and John remembered it well from their very first case, the one with the lady in pink] that you could tell the state of a marriage from the condition of the rings. No one, Sherlock seemed determined, would ever have reason to doubt the state of the Holmes-Watson relationship and so the rings were regularly and tenderly cleaned.

John heard the muttered words and knew that Sherlock meant them completely. He did not consider the weekly ritual to be work at all.

As for John, he saw it as an act of love and knew that Sherlock did as well. No one, he sometimes thought, should have been surprised that Sherlock was prone to such gestures of sentiment. How could anyone who had ever seen him at a crime scene or playing the violin not see the passion that dwelt just below that cool exterior? Of course, John realised he was probably being unfair to the rest of humanity. He was the only one who was ever really allowed to fully understand the man who was Sherlock Holmes. Never for one moment did he permit himself to forget that, possibly because there had been so many times when he’d almost lost everything. But they were still here, still together, stronger than ever in fact. And if Sherlock wanted to show that truth to the world by the shine on their rings, that was more than fine with John Watson.

The BBC news presenter was blabbering on, but John wasn’t watching. His eyes were still on Sherlock, who was solely focused on his task. When both rings were polished to his exacting standard, Sherlock’s lips turned up just a little into a small private smile.

It was then that his mobile rang. Sherlock picked it up. “Yes, Inspector?” He listened and his eyes brightened. “Text me the address.”

John sighed. So much for a quiet evening at home.

“It’s a locked room murder, John,” Sherlock said with barely contained excitement. “So it might actually be interesting.”

Before John could push himself up from the sofa, Sherlock was standing in front of him. Then he crouched down, holding one ring out carefully. John lifted his hand and Sherlock slipped the ring back where it belonged.   
Then Sherlock bounced up again and headed for his coat. “Hurry, John! A locked room mystery!”

John grinned and followed him.

The game was still on.

fini


End file.
